


your story changes (turning pages)

by skeletonwine



Series: poor man's poison [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Tevinter Culture and Customs, i'm just playing in the sand box, slow burn series, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27768445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonwine/pseuds/skeletonwine
Summary: Silvetti is an author of classical Tevinter literature. So...why are the Venatori using him as inspiration in their newest plot for power? (varric's interested in a foreign author, and dorian is only too happy to share)
Relationships: (eventual) dorian/varric
Series: poor man's poison [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031391
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	your story changes (turning pages)

**Author's Note:**

> testing out the waters of the fandom, and playing around with my version of the characters. i have a weakness for dorian.

1.

“Blood magic,” says Dorian, dryly. He steps over the particularly large, rusty stain on the floor and over towards the nearby desk. It’s covered in a litany of papers, books, and the odd open parchment. The writing is distinctly Tevene. Varric can pick out a few words here and there, but mostly he just knows the _fun_ language. Not the magic stuff.

“Of course it is,” grumbles Blackwall. “Can’t have a ‘vint around without them slaughtering farmers by the dozen.”

The warden crouches down beside one of the bodies, using the tips of his fingers to roll the corpse over. It’s long dead; flies, rot, the whole she-bang.

Dorian picks up a piece of paper. “Oh, absolutely. That is my _favorite_ past time, however did you guess?” And then, without missing a beat, “Varric, come look at this. You’re more familiar with the region. Do you know of any bird shaped stones in the area?”

“Bird shaped?” Frowning, Varric moves to stand next to Dorian. The mage tilts the paper down so he can see. It’s still all in Tevene.

Dorian carries on, “yes, bird shaped. You know, two wings and an unfortunately sharp beak? No? Not to matter, it’s probably already done with by now. This is old marks, can’t even feel the – yes, no, that’s right. The Hinterlands, then, if we’re really looking to find this group of Venatori.”

He passes the paper to Varric and grabs up another, two books sliding under his arm, a third book, a thick, leather bound journal, flipping open. Dorian’s eyes flick over the pages, scanning the words, eyes narrowing the way they do when he’s really thinking hard about something.

“Hinterlands again, and – well, if that isn’t all grim and gory,” muses Dorian. He flicks through a few more pages of the book before announcing, “a shame that we have to pass this book along. There are some truly fascinating thoughts in here. A riff on Vivauldi’s basic principle, paired with Salvetti quotes and Gise’s theory on fade-walking. Vol Amol born, I would imagine.”

“Sure,” draws Blackwall. He’s finished sifting through the corpse’s belongings but doesn’t appear to have come up with anything important. “Slaughterin’ innocent’s all kinds of fascinating.”

Blackwall’s kind of prickly, but he seems to have a specific dislike for Dorian – which is fine because, the feeling seems to be mutual. Dorian responds, “I thought that you might think so, considering it _is_ a habit that you southerners seem to hold.”

“Don’t see any _southerners_ bleeding out the farmers.”

“I’m certain that the apostates we found on _pikes_ last week would think differently.”

“Salvetti,” interrupts Varric, because he’s surrounded by _children_. “Where do I recognize that name from?”

Dorian all but _beams_ at him. “ _And by my hand, by your hand, I will walk the bloody dunes. Though a bird, I will not fly._ Salvetti, Deepest Waters. One of the most prolific authors of classic Tevene literature. I am both unsurprised that his talent has reached the south, and impressed that _you_ have heard of him.”

“Oh, right.” Varric’s mouth cuts up into an easy smile of his own. “He did The Truest Path.”

Just like that, the smile drops off of Dorian’s face. He looks like he might have eaten a lemon. “Of course that’s the only one that you’ve read. Let’s just go back to looking for the Venatori, shall we? No need to discuss _trash_.”

And then he turns and goes back to riling through the books, making Varric wonder if someone just insulted _his_ opinion on literature.

(to be fair, he doesn’t actually remember anything about that book outside of the _incredibly_ detailed sex scenes, and the fact it was written by a ‘vint.)

(he might need to get his hands on another copy of it.)

2.

They’re taking a wagon out to the Hinterlands, which is a nice change of pace. It’s faster than going on foot, and according to whatever conversation Dorian and the Inquisitor had, getting to the leader of this branch of Venatori _quickly_ is of dire importance.

Bull’s come out with them, too. That’s not a big deal, except for the fact that Blackwall has _also_ come out with them. It’s a lot of muscle for a band of Venatori that’s not even a baker’s dozen strong.

Makes one wonder.

And, considering it’s the middle of the night and it’s just the two of them up, it makes Varric _curious_. He starts with, “so, Salvetti.”

Dorian _sniffs_. “I will _not_ discuss trash with you.”

Right.

The True Path.

Varric managed to get his hands on a copy. His Tevene’s rusty, but he still managed to get the general idea of the plot made out.

“Yeah,” he says. “Not really the kind of plot to write home about, is it?”

Dorian hums. It’s not dismissive. It’s just one of those sounds he makes.

That’s fine. It’s painfully easy to get Dorian talking. The guy has a personal vendetta against silence, among _other_ things. “So how’s a guy like that influencing the Venatori?”

“Oh, how _isn’t_ he? Salvetti is - “ Dorian says something in Tevene. Not a naughty word, so Varric doesn’t know it. Then he purses his lips together and amends, “a long-standing cultural influence. Really, these men have horrible taste, but someone working in their midst is a true _intellect_. One of the last pieces published by Salvetti before his untimely demise was Bridged Worlds. Absolute rubbish, of course, the forbidden love between a magister’s daughter and a being of the Fade.”

“Funny. We’ve got one of those about a chantry woman.”

“I doubt that yours ends the way _ours_ does,” says Dorian, and it sounds like a compliment towards Sister Of The Fade, which is something Varric thought he’d _never_ hear.

Varric says, “I don’t know about that. I think most forbidden romances end in bloodshed.”

Dorian smiles, then, a crooked, toothy thing. He leans forward, one hand settling to brace himself when the wagon hits a particularly rough patch of road. “It’s something of an _art_ among Tevinter romances. Take the most taboo subjects you can find, and then justify it with the perfect slip of propaganda. Romance with a moral lesson, and that lesson is _always_ listen to tradition. And the Magister’s. Token hero’s, and what not.”

“Yep. You’ve seen how many of _ours_ have dashing templars come and save the day.”

“There’s a reason why I enjoy your works over most southern dribble,” says Dorian. And then, before Varric can ask _you’ve read my books_ , he tacks on, “but as I was saying, int his particular piece of writing, the maiden in question slaughters an entire village to bring her lover from the Fade out into the world. It is, of course, a Desire demon, and, of course, there is an equally large party of _willing_ sacrifices for the magister to use in his own heroic attempt to bind Desire to the maiden.”

“That’s...some ending. This guy’s popular?”

“Incredibly. Not for the plot, mind you. For the _risk_ of it. _And in the mirror, I see myself – but a better self, a truer self. I have the power to give names, and to this almost perfect image I give the name Desire. An open mirror. An open door. A body left behind on a cold marble floor. Whole and wanted, I walk_. It’s a terribly romantic sentiment.”

Varric chuckles. “Sounds like you’re a fan.”

Dorian’s smile is a little more crooked, then. A little rougeish. Like _this_ is a secret. “I have a copy of Deepest Water in Skyhold. I will lend it to you sometime.”

“I’ll make an evening of it.”

“With wine. And not the swill that Krem and his lot usually drink, mind you. In fact, don’t even go to the Herald’s Roost. I’m surprised we haven’t poisoned everyone at this point. Talk to Josephine. She keeps a somewhat decent supply of Val Royeaux red in her room. Still not the best, but at least it goes down easier than the concoction that Giselle serves up.”

“Can’t say I’m much of a wine man,” says Varric.

“No. I imagine not. Ale, or that _awful_ swill Cullen takes to his room with him.”

“If you ask Curly, that’s just tea.”

“It’s the most brandy smelling tea I’ve ever had the displeasure of being around,” says Dorian. “Marxilla would do better for his headaches. I used to know a man, awful hair, smelled like he was trying to become one with the cologne he wore, but, yes, migraines, awful ones at that, a bit of Marxilla, a bit of elfroot, and a near full glass of _bourbon_. Now _that_ is a headache cure.”

Varric argues that spice blends are better for the headache, and then Dorian challenges that the south doesn’t understand the _concept_ of spice, and suddenly they’re debating curries and wings and sauces, and it’s not until the sun is starting to peek up behind them and Blackwall gives a groggy sounding, “Maker’s balls, that’s bright”, that Varric realizes he never got his explanation.

Tricky, dealing with someone else who knows how to steer a conversation. And curious, too, that Dorian didn’t just answer the question.

3.

The first village they come across is empty. Nothing’s on fire. The houses aren’t looted or pillaged down to bone and bare structures. It’s just got no people in it.

So they split up and start looking around, and Bull’s the one that finds the mark on the door. It’s a big thing, red paint, on what was probably the mayor’s door. “This looks...not great.”

“Looks like demons,” says Blackwall. “Blood?”

“Paint,” tsks Dorian. “And it has nothing to do with demons.”

Varric scratches at the mark with the tip of a nail. “Aren’t these just initials?”

“Initials, and a sign of bad taste.” Dorian shakes his head. “I imagine they think that they’re being _funny_ with this.”

Blackwall asks, “what are the chances these people are still alive?”

Dorian doesn’t answer. He does open the door and step into the house, which pretty clear anyway.

“Initials aren’t usually the Venatori’s thing,” says Bull. “Only seen a few sects of them even _have_ a thing, past blood and demons.”

“I doubt they consider themselves Venatori at this point,” admits Dorian. He moves quickly through the house, making loud, irritable sounds after passing through each room.

Varric asks, “going to share with the rest of the class, Sparkler?”

“Doubtful,” grumbles Blackwall. “Bloody oaf _likes_ thinking he’s got one up on us.”

“I have _many_ things up on you,” says Dorian, resurfacing from an entirely different part of the house. “You don’t even begin to compare to me. In this case, the fact that I’m _literate_ helps an awful lot.”

“Alright, Sparkler. You’ve had your fun,” says Varric. “If we’re not dealing with Venatori anymore, what _are_ they?”

“Every bad Tevinter stereotype they could possibly manage, squished into human form,” says Dorian.

Iron Bull asks, “so, the Venatori.”

“We could not have been that lucky,” says Dorian, with an overly put upon sigh. There is a popular book in Tevinter that speaks about summoning a demon from the Fade and binding it to a living person. The practice is purely _fictional_. I believe that they are attempting to make it into reality.”

Blackwall swears up a storm, looking like he’s _very_ close to kicking the nearest table.

Varric asks, “so, in the book, how much blood gets spilled?”

Grim faced, Dorian answers, “all of it.”

4.

They don’t linger in the village. There’s no need for it. They can follow the trail of empty homes, abandoned wagons, and vacant farms all the way to a nearby section of mountainous terrain. Iron Bull says, “dramatic.”

Dorian says, “they have horrible taste. The least they could do was go to the lake and try to match the setting of the book.”

Varric asks, “we have any idea what we’re walking into?”

“A bloody mess,” grumbles Blackwall. Iron Bull gives a grunt of agreement.

The thing is, there’s only one entrance into the cave here. It’s very, very clearly guarded by ‘vints who...are just too preoccupied with something _inside_ of the cave to pay them any mind. Not the best sign. Look-outs generally are meant to watch _outside_ of the hide-out.

They take a back path up towards the entrance. It’s extra rough terrain. Trying to get the drop on people is always the hardest trek. Varric kind of misses the days where he stayed in Kirkwall and let the information come to him.

Scratch that.

Definitely regrets it.

Bull scales the mountains like he’s got goat blood in him. Blackwall’s not that bad, either. He spent a lot of years out here in the Hinterlands. Dorian’s lagging, though. He’s a good ten foot behind them, struggling to find the right footholds. Varric slows down so the distance between them isn’t that far.

He’s better with Bianca from a distance, anyway.

Varric asks, “how’re you holding up, Sparkler?”

“I’m on both feet and presently moving,” answers Dorian. “Mountains. I _hate_ mountains.”

“Pretty sure they feel - “

Blackwall swearing cuts him off. There’s a change in the air here. The feel of it. Like there’s a storm coming in even though it’s clear skies. Bull drops back like someone just threw a stone at him.

“Demons,” he says, unhappily. “Why is it _always_ demons?”

“Not demons,” answers Dorian. He shifts, digging the end of his staff hard into the ground. There’s blood running in dark rivulets over the stone above them. It’s coming out of the cave like a small stream. The two guards are gone and everything is deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t normal.

Bull scowls. “Looks like demons.”

“You cannot recreate a fictional summoning,” says Dorian. “Vivaldi and Gise are conflicting principles, anyway.”

Varric asks, “thought you said it was genius?”

“It _was_ ,” says Dorian. “But a single stroke of genius creates a hypothesis, not a full blown ritual. There were entirely too many holes in their sigil.”

Blackwall finally drops back to join them. “You spend a lot of time looking at it, did you?”

Which is really just the half of it, considering Dorian is the _only_ one with any understanding of what bullshit they’re about to walk into, and now looks like he just swallowed a lemon wedge. The implication is very heavy handed, and one of these days, Varric’s going to lock the two of them in a small, dark room and leave them be until they kill each other or work their shit out.

For now, though, he snaps, “let’s keep the fighting focused on the kiddies with red hands, why don’t we?”

Dorian says, “the problem with summoning a demon is that you _must_ be clear and precise. They wanted Desire, but _Desire_ does _not_ want blood. It picks you apart in more intimately painful ways, you know.”

Varric asks, “think they got Rage?”

“No,” says Dorian. “I think that they got _Wrath_."

5.

They did get Wrath, and it was _terrifying_.

Varric’s seen a lot of demons. He’s seen a lot of damage out in Kirkwall. Seen a lot of pain and suffering. But there is so much _dead_ in the cave that the air tastes like copper and blood and soured magic. There are _puddles_ under Varric’s boots.

It’s more than a little unsettling. It’s one of those things where the only real solution is to go get absolutely incredibly drunk and stay that way for several days at a time.

No one’s really talking. Everyone’s covered in blood, mostly _not_ their own. Bull has an impressive set of claw marks on his chest and Dorian’s breathing so hard that it comes out as a noisy wheeze.

Blackwall’s leaning against a wall, thrown off enough that he’s not even making a snide comment about the situation.

Which is good.

Varric does _not_ have the patience left in him for a _single_ snide comment.

Dorian crosses the room to where the supposed leader of the cult is not a bloody pulp on the cave floor. Each step makes a quiet _splish_ sound. He uses the base of his staff to push the man over, snatching something gold, gaudy, and probably dangerous from around his neck.

He keeps the amulet at arm’s length. The stone at the center of it is split straight down the middle. And then they leave.

There are a lot new empty farms in the Hinterlands.

At the bar two days later, an impressively sloppy Dorian tells him, “the problem was that they didn’t understand the basics of Salvetti’s work. The – the principle of it, the base, the – you’re a writer. What’s the word?”

“Plot,” supplies Varric, feeling happily sloshed himself.

“No, no,” Dorian waves him off. Then he continues anyway, “they thought that it was about the _binding_ , the sigil they made, that they would get something good out of it. You can’t _bleed_ Desire. Gize’s basic principle is that a demon is a direct reflection, and Salvetti had it right, but they didn’t. They missed it.”

“They did things out of order?”

“It’s not about the order. It’s about the corruption. Demon’s are corruptions of the Fade. Love turns to Desire, but it’s not – it’s not the _same_. And you can’t _steal_ love.” Dorian talks a _lot_ more about magic when he’s drunk. It’s a trend.

Varric thinks it’s sort of charming, even if he doesn’t understand most of what’s coming out of his mouth. He understands it even less when he’s drunk.

But Dorian waves his hand while he talks, animated and bright eyed. It’s a good look on him. “They wanted Sacrifice, but they got Wrath. The reflection of their own face. It’s fascinating that they can make that _connection_ , the principles with the book, but get it so, so awfully wrong. Idiocy in genius.”

They spend the rest of the night drinking.

Varric stumbles back to his room at some point near dawn, and when he’s actually _up_ the next day, nursing a hangover like thunder in his skull, he finds a little baggie containing marxilla and elfroot, and a worn copy of Bridged Worlds.

It’s complete with highlighted passages.

It looks like he’s going to have to brush up on his Tevine.

***

Excerpt from the final passages of Bridged Worlds

_But in the mirror I now see, the true Desire stares at me,_

_humble bird with no preamble, struck and shackled and dismantled_

_feathers plucked and bird diseased, Desire bled into the sea._

_And should you come and catch me weeping_

_know that I am only sleeping, for Love is humble soft and sweet_

_but Desire is a cold and deadly beast._


End file.
